Grimmdarkness of the 41st Millenium
by InquisitorMarek
Summary: Everything has a beginning. And everything has an end. They also have a quasi-interesting middle bit. This is not the middle, nor is it the end. This is...an abomination of a brainchild because I felt Marcus wasn't put through enough already. The timeline is still being firmed as new information comes in and as I pour skull sweat into it, so fear not. Progress is measured in blood.
1. Chapter 1

++Ordo Xeno Memoriam: Thol - The Emperor's Temporal Inquisitor++

++Volume 1, Section 3: Remnant Campaign as compiled by Alchemical Construct designation 001/A "Michelle"++

 _For as talkative as he was, Marcus never enjoyed the topic of Remnant. When I knew him, he couldn't hold his firebeer very well, nor were his stories more wonderful to listen to than some of the self-styled "Bardains of the Tomes". However, he did hold the respect (if grudgingly) of the entire Regiment; none the least to say about 2nd Company._

 _It wasn't until after the expedition to Nula that I began to take a serious look into the life of the man I served. Going through his datafiles, I came across a reference to a planet that didn't exist. Remnant. It was mentioned in passing during a shoddily written up report following the cessation of operations on-planet._

 _But details about Remnant remained elusive. All documents that had survived the campaign were burned by order of [Redacted] and the surviving Vox Ghosts met their fates in the hellfires of the Nulan purge, defiant to the end, fighting shoulder to shoulder with their Lord._

 _But then the Emperor Himself intervened, and the Reckoning was a word of praise and joy on everyone's lips. More detail is available, but not here. See Volume 3 for further information._

 _So, with all eye witnesses now returned to us, I began to interview them with earnest, especially the ones that had perished on planet. Their stories of the campaign were surprising, and filled with desperate holding actions, armored blitz assaults and no shortage of infighting between the Imperial and the natives._

 _Stories of single squads ordered to evacuate and hold entire city blocks were all too common, even as reinforcements arrived to stem the ever growing tide. More than a few told of how surprised and relieved they were to see the grandiose_ Hellfire _herself in atmosphere._

 _But they avoided talking about one incident. What ended the campaign. The ones that had met their end in Remnant's orbit, or in subsequent operations were even skeptical about talking about it. But I kept digging, questioning, demanding. Even when they were dying of starvation, or of thirst, they would not yield. Either they can size up AI constructs with a glance, or I'm a big softie, even digitized._

 _But then one man decided he didn't want to take things to chance on "a young upstart". And he talked. He broke the silence, and by extension, the code of honor held up above all by every man, woman, and child both in the Regiment and in the fleet._

 _And when he was done, I realized that I had found what I was looking for. And I also realized I regretted looking for it to begin with._

++Biological Scans Complete++

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++Homo Sapien Identified++

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++DNA Sample Valid++

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++Identity Confirmed. Access Granted++

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++Beginning Download, packet_1++

++Location Confirm. Galactic North-East. Segmentum Ultima. Unknown System. ++

++Register System?++

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++Function Failure. System Already Registered++

++Retrieve System Name++

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++[Date redacted by Ordo Xenos, effective {Redacted}.{Redacted}.M{Redacted}]++

Tik. Tok. Tik. Tok. Tik. Tok.

It was normally the case that he would retreat to his office in times of stress for a nice pot of recaf and to listen to the soothing sounds of the massive gears operating the clock within which the Headmaster's office had been built.

But tonight was different.

Tik. Tok. Tik. Tok. Tik. Tok.

Tonight, he drank no recaf from a well-loved mug made from seemingly alien materials, nor did the ticking of the clock soothe his frazzled nerves.

Nor was the object sitting in the position of honor upon his desk supposed to see the light of day.

Tik. Tok. Tik. Tok. Tik. Tok.

Tonight, he drank his ancestor's ancient swill, distilled on their impossible journey, imbued with the very qualities that had allowed them to survive. Hardiness, full body, and a coarse, fiery passion that was felt all the way down the gullet.

Whipping his head back, he drained the alien crystal decanter for the fourth time since arriving and removing that accursed object. Thoughts, plans and responses weighed heavily on his mind, more so than usual. Infinitely more so.

The Headmasters of the Hunter Academies were publicly known as sometime friends, sometime bitter rivals but capable of getting along and working together. The Ruling Council had considered itself blessed that those who essentially commanded one of the most powerful resources on the planet were able to get along so well, despite their differences.

For little did they know of the truth.

Tik. Tok. Tik. Tok. Tik. Tok.

He'd thought about going public with the truth many a time, each iteration slightly different than the last, but each ending with the same result. A burned out husk of a planet, under the rule of….unsavory individuals.

No, the truth shall stay hidden, lest it be let out at an inopportune time, and ruin everything the past two generations of Headmasters had been working towards.

He looked himself over in the faint reflection in the glass. His normally pale face was flushed from the swill, but the glasses with the crooked bridge was still the same as this morning. His hair had long since gone white, but he supposed that's what he got for neglecting his greens. Oum, did he hate kale.

Tik. Tok. Tik. Tok. Tik. Tok.

Gingerly, he set the decanter on the desk beside him, letting his gaze and thoughts drift to the dust encrusted bottle of impossibly hard steel, emblazed with the sigil that went from salvation and hope for the future to eternal damnation and secrecy.

Then he let it drop down to the armored tome bound by DNA scanner locks upon which the bottle sat, also embossed with the same stylized "I", skull motifs, double headed eagle and written in the language of the mythical First Humans.

Tik. Tok. Tik. Tok. Tik. Tok.

Ever the student of history, he'd excelled at his studies at the elite Schola where he had been sent as a child, but lacked much vigor in the physical exams compared to his compatriots.

It was this love of the academic that he had been marked for Beacon, the Light House of Remnant. It was into the mind that loved history that the ancient, dead language of the First Founders was put. And it was from reading the tome that had caused him to forsake the recaf this eve.

The first chapters were the entirety of an instruction manual so convoluted and riddled with metaphors that he had to actually remove the object in question from the vault cleverly hidden in the center of the floor. And even then it was an arduous task. He'd read it, but he'd be damned if he actually understood that the first time around.

The rest?

He poured the impossibly ancient liquor into his impossibly beautiful decanter and took a gentle swallow before allowing his mind to retread down that path.

The rest was a series of instructions on what to do in case of certain emergencies, clearly intended to be passed on from one generation to the next. But that wasn't the worrying part.

It was when it got into the description of the types of emergencies that he had begun to worry. And with each new word he'd read in that long lost tome, that worry had only grown, compounded by his own theories and plans, some of which were already in motion.

Tik. Tok. Tik. Tok. Tik. Tok.

He nearly had a heart attack after reading the chapter titled "Heresy 101". For it was here that he had begun thinking of activating the ancient device, a "Single-Use Astropath-Simulated Vox" after the criterion for a demonic cult incursion were laid bare before his eyes, and it was here that he realized that his planet would not merely be burnt to a crisp if he failed to cinch down on the cult.

It was also here that he realized he was not alone. No, Mankind was strong amidst the stars, carrying on a legacy of bitter survival, every new day a victory by itself.

Tik. Tok. Tik. Tok. Tik. Tok.

It was also there that he realized why he had been chosen for Beacon. It wasn't just because of his political and academic abilities, just as James hadn't been sent to Atlas just because of his tactical abilities. No, the man was able to lead, to inspire. With grey in his temples, he still looked like a front line commander, and the citizen soldiers of Atlas loved him for it.

Just as the Ruling Council and Vale loved him for his own wise console.

He took a larger swig from the decanter, draining it to one third of what he had put in.

Which meant he had but one decision to make, and seal the fate of an entire world. Millions of lives, in the palms of his hand, the recesses of his mind.

He felt large and powerful, and at the same time, small and meek. Who was he, a single man, to have such enormous control over an unknowing population? What right gave him that?

He looked over at the SUSAV on his desk, occupying the Beolon's share of available work space.

That. That single thing. This piece of human developed technology, this thing, device, that contained a tortured soul of a…psyker. Waiting for use. In limbo, not knowing the passage of time.

Suddenly, he did not want to signal for help. If these First Humans were anything like the tome mentioned, then it might be better off not inviting them. The subconscious rating of Faunus as second class citizens was actually mellow compared to what he believed would happen if First Humans arrived now. Oum, it was the _favorable_ option!

Yes. His mind was made up. If humanity devised a method to fight demons before, they can do it again, but better. He resolved to make a case to James in the morning. His R/D division was leagues better than his own, much to the delight of James and the detriment of himself.

Tik. Tok. Tik. Tok. Tik. Tok.

His mind made up, he moved over to the desk and set the slightly full decanter onto the desk. Something glinted. He looked carefully in the direction of the flare of light, and found himself staring at the SUSAV.

No, just a trick of the imagination, he said to himself. Just as the SUSAV was out of sight, the glint returned. A single flash.

"What in the name of Oum is going on here…?" he muttered to himself, looking about the SUSAV for the source of the glint. Upon finding nothing, he reviewed where he was standing and the approximate location of the flash.

Now, from what he could already tell, the flash was coming from an unknown source, reflecting off of the double headed eagle, the "Holy Aquilla", if his translation was correct.

Which meant that something wonky was going on with the symbol, or the "amseac" was tainted with something. Either way wasn't good; someone tampering with the symbol here meant they had penetrated to the highest levels of security that Remnant boasted, and had seen the very alien device sitting upon his desk, with the floor vault opened. If the drink was tainted, then he faced the possibility of not only everything noted above, but of biological contamination or a bioweapon. Again, neither mean fun times ahead.

He looked around the room and saw nothing. Exactly as he expected of a master spy. So then he tried something he knew couldn't be defeated, and reached out with his Semblance.

This…turned up some interesting details. There was indeed a presence within the confines of his office, but was closer than he had expected it to be.

Nor was it of human form.

The SUSAV sitting on his desk was emanating a very, very strong paternal style of love. So strong was the emotion, that when he looked at it though the second mode of his glasses, the thing was glowing a bright, blinding gold, emanating a palpable heat.

Quickly, he cut off the flow of Aura to his Semblance. The glow subsided and his glasses regained their normal magnifying properties.

"There is no way this can be possible…" he muttered to himself. He reached out and ran a hand along the smooth surface, feeling the alien metals, plastics and the dust of centuries built up upon it. Then he sent a pulse of his Semblance through the object. And he got a different response than the first time.

This time, he got a feeling of loneliness, of isolation mixed in with the warm paternal love. Almost like two competing psyches were in the same soul supposedly contained within the SUSAV.

"This is absolutely insane." The words echoed quietly around the empty office.

Tik. Tok. Tik. Tok. Tik. Tok.

He sat there, examining the SUSAV with both unaugmented and his augmented senses. As he continued to sit there, looking at it again and again, he began to feel a desire suddenly take root within his head. A mere thought, a wonderment, nothing more. But the more he looked at the device before him, the more he wanted to follow through with it.

And so, after staring at it for about twenty minutes, he reached out with his hand and lightly brushed the glowing device.

And then it shocked him, as static electricity would shock one touching a metal doorknob after rubbing a balloon over oneself.

But rather than transferring energy, this transferred a vision.

Creatures of unspeakable descriptions, locked in vicious, eternal battle with warriors clad in great suits of armor, wielding the largest weapons he had ever seen. Some of the warriors were even larger than the "normal" rank and file. Their command prowess was that to be held in awe, expertly directing the wounded warriors around them, encouraging, demeaning, ordering them in an unceasing cycle, even as their own soldiers fell to the ground with terrible rents and holes blown into their powerful armor.

Looking around he noticed smaller figures, and large armored vehicles moving in between the giants. Some wore green and tan fatigues, some wore overcoats of every description. Most carried handheld weapons much smaller than those of the smaller giants. These puny weapons fired red-angry stabs of energy, merely agitating the otherworldly hordes. However, he saw, as soon as one nightmarish entity turned its gaze unto the small human, a magnificently garbed giant stepped in, wielding a sword as long as the warrior was tall, and cleaved the nightmare into nothingness, screaming a battlecry at the top of his lungs, face twisted in unyielding, unending rage.

Interspersed with the large and varied colors of small warrior tanks, there came massive machines of war, like squat walkers, wielding miniguns of immense calibers, glowing blast cannons, a wall of machineguns to name a few.

Behind them, were larger, bipedal walkers. Large cannons, or gatling guns for arms, the hunched big brothers of the squat walkers stomped about, raking unrelenting fire from their massive guns, while back mounted launchers spat long range death onto the front lines.

Behind them, and fewer in number, even more immense walkers tread, squashing untold numbers beneath their own treads, doing battle with others of their own kind, or with massive swarms of lesser beings, mowing them down with mechanical precision and coldness.

The sheer scale of the conflict raging before his eyes began to stretch what his mind could accept as possible. These immense creations of war, all bent on and designed for destroying their opposites in battle, nothing but gothic artistry among them, pointed arches, cathedrals and weapons of immense size, shape and function.

But above all, at the very head of the frontlines, where the warriors of Man had cut deep into the lines of indescribable horrors from Beyond, there lay a familiar sight, a familiar feeling. The paternal love, the palpable warmth. The golden glow, now as bright as a star.

 _I am Melonia_ , a soft and coarse voice whispered into his mind as he observed the battle raging below. _Before you stands the Master of Man, the Immortal God-Emperor of Mankind, Savior of Humanity. With him stands the Astra Militarum, His Sons and Grandsons, the dead Mortal and Immortal forces of His Imperium. Here they fight alongside Him, helping Him wage His war so the living might know a universe that much more peaceful. For in this universe, even the dead can know no peace. There is only war, in this, the grimdarkness that is the 41st Millennium of Man._

The view switched to that of an orbital view of a planet, the likes of which he had never seen before. It was lush, green, full of life. And then a shadow moved. Looking closer, he saw that the shadow was a ship, and then the view shifted to that of one closer to the ship.

 _If you can hear my voice, see what I have seen, then you too are witch-kin, the damned mutant brother of Humanity. I fear for you, and even in my deathless state, know that I pray for your deliverance unto the Emperor. For in Him, you will find salvation. You will find peace, as I have._

To call the ship large would be the most massive understatement of his life. Hardly had he seen a creation of such immense proportions, of either man or nature's devising. And the sheer amount of ornate arches decorated with prayers and words of wisdom, hate and hope scrawled onto the impervious looking armor told him this was a man-made vessel, despite its mind boggling size.

The vessel slowly arced around the planet before being sling shot out into space. The planet below began to change as it turned. At first it was a fading of the lush color of the planet, then a sore opened up on the planet, spilling forth into the lands surrounding it. From there, it spread unto the rest of the planet, consuming it entirely, bathing the once lush habitat with unnatural and impossible shades of terrible energies.

 _I pray for your salvation, my friend, my brother, sister. Many a soul, family, galaxy has fallen to the machinations of the Immaterium. If there is even the slightest suspicion of heretical cults afoot, cry for help._

Then images from terrible scenes flashed before his mind's eye.

Massive blood choked warriors wielding gore-encrusted weaponry massacring civilians. Blue armored warriors unleashing massive demons and using powers he could tell were bending the laws of the universe. Green warriors spreading filth and disease to all in contact with them, and pink warriors annihilating species with acoustic weaponry, shrieking in orgasmic ecstasy.

 _If you see these terrible emanations of fallen champions and demigods, then your fight is already over._

 _There is no hope for your soul._

Just before the vision cut out, he saw five symbols, each one seared into his brain with the unimaginable horrors that went along with them.

Tik. Tok. Tik. Tok. Tik. Tok.

When he awoke, he didn't know how long has passed since the vision began.

When he awoke, he realized he was horizontal instead of sitting.

When he awoke, he realized what needed to happen. He had to cry for help, or damn the planet to a hellish existence for the rest of eternity.

Pushing himself off the floor, he regained his seat and dimly found the cup of recaf he had begun the evening with and took a swig from it.

Then, he took a breath and breathed a quiet prayer to the God of the First Humans. _I may not have believed in this Emperor for very long, but I'll take any help I can get._

He sat down in the chair behind his desk and flipped the pages to the first chapter, how to start the SUSAV… _there's got to be a better name for this thing. How about Susan? Yeah, Susan works._

He turned on his scroll terminal and brought up the files he wanted to send, collecting them into a single compressed folder and then setting it aside for the data transfer.

"Face unit towards yourself. In the top, right corner, extend the Lance of Astropahy. Do not press the Rune of Activation, otherwise the Machine Spirit will not respond to your requests." He shook his head and attempted to wipe the frustration from his eyes. It was awful enough reading through it the first time. But he would do it. He knew he would, just as Drill Abbot Samriel knew he would when he had selected him, Dr. Lavernius Mayhew Ozpin [PhD, Early Remnant History] for the role of Headmaster of Beacon Academy in the kingdom of Vale.

Ozpin drank no more of the amseac, distilled aboard an impossibly large Voidship, but instead switched to recaf. It would be a long night, and he still had to induct the newest crop of students in the morning. Glynda would kill him, but he fancied that would be the better of a scattering of bad options if he failed to get this out.

As he worked long hours into the night, occasionally cursing the Cult of the Machine and their lack of clarity on "fucking anything with an Oum-damned battery pack", his only other companion was the steady ticking of the massive gears which no longer held any comfort for him.

For soon the slow, minute tiks and toks would be a commodity that his fellow Remnatians would pay the ultimate price for. He just hoped many wouldn't have to do it.

Tik.

Tok.

Tik.

Tok.

Tik.

Tok.

++Download Complete++

++Thought for the Day: Fear the shadows, for they contain horrors no sane man can survive++


	2. Chapter 2

++Ordo Xeno Memoriam: Thol - The Emperor's Temporal Inquisitor++

++Volume 1, Section 3: Remnant Campaign as compiled by Alchemical Construct designation 001/A "Michelle"++

 _Every Inquisitor goes through a Rite of Passage before they are quite literally handed the keys to the Imperium. Some Passages are more ceremonial than others. Some are most assuredly not._

 _Sometimes an Inquisitor will test their Acolytes with a particularly damning situation, like the infamous Ordo Malleus Inquisitor Lowp's unbinding of the Demonhost Seelkp'loaq to test her Interrogator. As of writing, they still have not caught the Demon, nor has the corpse of the previous host provided any clues. Psychic examination remains fatal to any who attempt it._

 _However, that is a rather extreme case; most times the Inquisitor will just unload a case unto their Acolyte and let them figure out the investigation while running a simultaneous one to keep an eye on them and their progress._

 _From the records I have been able to locate, Marcus was of the type labeled "Elucidator"; more of a preliminary investigation agent than anything else. What lore I was able to retrieve from the archives of SauerKraut, Acolytes with the Elucidator designation are typically the most well equipped to handle the transition into full Inquisitional status, and the Passage is just basically a ceremony before the Acolyte goes off gallivanting about the universe happy as an Inquisitor can be._

 _Looking back, I see now it suited him rather well, and it was more than adequate to prepare him for what was to come, including our eventual meeting._

 _Also, as I look back, I can tell where it did him wrong._

++Biological Scans Complete++

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++Homo Sapien Identified++

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++DNA Sample Valid++

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++Identity Confirmed. Access Granted++

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++Beginning Download, packet_2++

++Location Confirm. Galactic North-East. Segmentum Ultima. Anchorheim Sector++

++Grapenlik Orbit. Retrofitted Inquisitional Transport _Attributor_ ++

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++[Date redacted by Ordo Xenos, effective {Redacted}.{Redacted}.M{Redacted}]++

"Greetings Acolytes. I honestly hadn't expected to hear from you all so soon."

The room was dark, with most of the available light coming from the ancient holo tank adorning the center of the spherical Tactica Control room. At the apex, the other light source swirled, the collection of attendant Servoskulls that each Acolyte was permitted to use. The walls here were ancient, having not been changed since the ship was built some seven millennia ago, and showed their signs of extended exposure to the Warp with unnatural, glowing rust veins that crisscrossed the halls of the ship. Those gathered in the room wouldn't admit it, but their spines tingled, and several of them tried not to look hard into the dark corners of the room where the light just didn't quite reach.

The gathered assembly of personal varied greatly. One woman stood off in a corner of the group, not looking at any of her peers, nor did she make eye contact with them, save out of the corner of her eye. Her overly loose satin robes bore the insignia of the Adepta Sororitas, but her muscular frame and scarred visage bespoke not the Hospitaller order, but the Chambers Militant. When the Silver Servant spoke her melodious words, her gaze softened ever so slightly and ignored the remaining rabble around her. Her prayers had indeed been answered, if only for the moment.

In the middle of the pack, another woman chatted amiably with those that would offer words of any kind to her, taking insult as well as compliment, returning each with what appeared to be a genuine smile on her face. To those who knew her however, would be able to tell that this smile was a fake, one she used to put others at ease even if she herself could not be. Her robes were non-descript, but the stylus and large auto pistol at her hips told of either an adventurous Munitorum Adept, or one of the Adeptus Arbites. At her master's voice, she stopped speaking and immediately turned all attention to her.

One of the fellows trading insults with the Adept was a red robed student of Mars, even if her lack of visible augments belied her true alignment. Her face was held in a scowl as she eyed the annoyingly talkative fleshbag. Clearly her insults were not working on her, no matter how biting or speculative they were. And coupled with the ominous and looming mood that the room cast, it was getting to her, until the Lady spoke. Then nothing, not even the eerie room mattered.

On the back side of the group, a late arrival slipped into the room quietly. He padded in softly, well used Guard-issue armored boots barely making a sound as they carried him past the gathered assembly. The young man appeared to be in his late teens or early twenties, his youthful face still hadn't shed all of the baby fat gained at birth.

Pale brown eyes inspected the dark room and his face went from passively optimistic to passively aggressive without him thinking about it. As he stopped and propped himself against a bulkhead, his hands found purchase near the hilts of his weapons slung at his hips on the sturdy belt, and the pale brown eyes began to survey the surrounding darkness. All the while he listened to the tingling of his spine, the sweating of his palms and moved the non-dominant foot around in its boot, trying to scratch the itch that had suddenly appeared on his sole.

He wore no robes of office, but rather ragged Guard fatigues that bespoke a rude awakening. In the dimness of the room, the other Acolytes who noticed his entrance wondered why such a figure was occupying the same room as them. They were Inquisitional Acolytes, not paranoid Guardsmen. Only one of them recognized the dual inverted Gothic numeral "2" and ice blue coloring.

When the Lady spoke, his cold demeanor warmed the slightest bit for the slightest second. To those observing, a small smile flashed into and out of existence in an instant. The Acolyte was pleased with himself. His position had afforded him a clear line of sight to the Butcher of Billions.

The holo-tank flickered, and the Butcher's metallic face mask was replaced by an image of a planet.

From the geological data stream alongside the new image, he learned that this world was human habitable, and had been for some time. The only odd thing was how long it had been in Imperial space. The date was far too recent to be of really any good use for a recruiting world. _Why weren't the Ecclisarchy handling this one? Or is this why the Sororitas is here?_

"Two hundred and twenty-five years ago, a joint expedition was convened between the Martian Priesthood and Conclave SauerKraut. The mission was to investigate a stretch of space between Holy Terra and Maccragge, rumored to harbor an ancient forge world, silent since the early days of the Heresy; one of the first to fall silent as its Mechanicus masters sought to stay hidden from the chaos of Horus. Assigned to the Explorator fleet was Lord Inquisitor Beladivea Milowz. The fleet, comprised of some three hundred seventy eight ships, were mostly hastily converted raiders and frigates into minor Mechanicus Arks and transports. The flagship, was a true Ark Mechanicus; the _Ingrid in Gold_. There were no reported delays or unexpected arrivals before the fleet set engines from Klopuhty's orbital docks.

However, the next piece of documentation we have on the fleet was when it was sighted and hailed by an Astropathic Relay station in the outer reaches of the Anchorum sector, just out of range of Port Port. From what we have gathered from the cryptic wails and hails from the survivors, the fleet's Gellar Fields had been linked to the _Ingrid_ through some archeotech contraption.

Then, while translated, not only did this reinforce the individual strength of the Gellar Fields, but it also managed to shut out most of the normal phenemona that occur during Warp translation. Unfortunately, this puts immense strain on the lead Navigator, so they had set up a sort of network that would heal itself, should something go wrong.

And things went terribly wrong. Inquisitor Milowz wasn't aboard the _Ingrid_ , thankfully, and was able to document the events that led up to its destruction. I have included her reports in the mission 'slates.

But, with the _Ingrid_ now long gone as the flagship, there was a necessary translation back to realspace to assess the damage done. Milowz's vessel, one of the few true thoroughbred Cruiser-class hulls appropriated for the venture, the _Pilgrim of Time_ , translated into a system that had been previously undiscovered or unrecorded. By all means, there shouldn't be a system where her navigational instruments told her she was.

Aside from very rich mineral deposits in the surrounding asteroid belts, there was a curiously habitable planet. And by curious, I mean everything about it is remarkable; it's the closest to Terran normal we have ever found in the entire galaxy. Everything, save the moon's tidal effect. That has been reduced to approximately 72% of what Terra would have had during a similar phase of habitation.

From the technological data her Mechanicus attendants acquired and from what was later recovered, we have estimated that the planet is now in a technological era reminiscent of later half of the first century, second millennium of Terra.

However, what was most shocking, was that the human population had been living in relative harmony with the local abhuman populace. She was astonished with it to such a degree that she held off on unleashing the bombardment cannon, and in a since-highly-debated-decision, planted several agents to monitor the situation. Which is where you all come in.

There was a single operative with the means to communicate back if things began to take a turn for the heretical, or their cogitators needed to be emptied. Given the packet of information that I have received and pass onto you, it seems as though cogitator banks being full are the least of their problems.

Said information is currently some three months, two days, five and a half hours out of date. Take a moment to examine the initial pages yourself."

Several monotask servoskulls entered the room, outfitted with extra repulsor units and a holding rack for passing out stacks of dataslates swathed in their security seals; any attempt to access the slate since encoding would have removed the seal and warned the recipient that the data had been previously accessed.

He took one off the stack and thanked it without realizing what he was saying. The others did not hear him, too focused on their own theories reverberating around in their skulls. He mentally chastised himself; for the Silver Savant herself had scolded him time and time again to hide his mannerisms.

Sighing, he turned his attention to the slate in his hands and removed the wax seal over the gene-codifier, before thumbing through the first several sheets. With growing trepidation, he realized exactly what kind of information here was.

If this were paper flimsy, this would occupy stack after stack of bound tomes. Fortunately, it isn't. Sliding through the pages upon pages of digitized flimsy, a realization dawns.

This is a standard format for a briefing about an Inquisition-sanctioned invasion. He stops skimming and returns to the introduction to the section labeled "local geoscape".

'Included is the topographical and aerial maps of Vale and its immediate surroundings. Indicated in blue are the buildings designated as Arbites, Green the Planetary Defense Force (Ammendum – no such unified fighting force exists upon Remnant, so local military buildings are indicated in absence)'

The map before his eyes bespoke a dismal story. Arbites of any sort were lacking, not to mention whatever brand of PDF they fielded. All the major waystations were located not in the city center, but along the outer walls, as if the city planners had been expecting an invasion any day. But what could prove to be so distasteful for them to be forced behind walls so heavily defended?

He found his answer under 'local threats'. Grimm. Creatures of Grimm. He immediately recognized a few of them as borrowing from Ckam's fauna. _A Beowulf? Pack tactics?_ He thought as he read the first entry. _Bipedal, canine in appearance and in behavior. Intelligence is relatively high, and adaptability is second to none._

A small smile worked its way onto his face as he contemplated fighting one of these on a battleground. _Pack tactics, ambush and lightning strikes. Well_ golly _, doesn't that sound familiar_?

As he enjoyed the small warmth that the smile generated, his mind ground into the reality of his thinking, churning out an answer he knew was correct, and one he should have addressed, but didn't because it seemed unnecessary; He needed more than just 1st Platoon.

By the time he had gotten to the entry on a gigantic flying monstrosity called a "Nevermore", he was contemplating just bombarding everywhere not human held into oblivion on sheer principle. And the idea appealed to him very, very much.

And yet, he knew that such a plan wouldn't come to pass. Not until after boots were on the ground and the situation was deemed to be _actually_ that bad. What it did mean in the mean time was that his men were going to be paste in the slush.

On his way down to the new technology section, he came to the Evidence portion, which opened with the line 'The following contains graphic material and is intended for mature audiences. Viewer discretion is advised.'

Thanks to the machinations of a particularly nasty Plague sorcerer, name scoured from his mind by Inquisitional censors at his own request, he'd been thrown into a cesspit of damnation, decay and hopelessness.

And after talking it over with a few of the other Vox Ghosts, they'd agreed; that was the nastiest sog they'd ever seen. And he believed it; his home burned before his eyes, and yet he would have preferred that to the hell that was fighting off…whatever those things were. Somehow, 'zombie' didn't do the unholy creature justice. _Still doesn't_ , he thought, before grabbing the reigns of his mental processes and directing them back towards the slate in his hands.

Even still, he had to take a minute, like more than a few others he noted with a small spark of relief. The items in question were clearly Arbites first on the scene; the universal yellow tape with black lettering was all over the background, where some officers blocked physically the entrance to what he could only assume was a dwelling.

There wasn't just one set, nor two or three. There were at least fifteen, each with a different method of death implemented to gruesome effect. All were in personal dwellings, though, which seemed rather odd.

The other oddity was that none of the victims had anything to do with one another, if the author's words were to be believed. None. Absolutely none. Their locations had been plotted on the map, and there wasn't any recognizable sigil no matter what way he mentally drew the lines. Unless you started drawing curves and loops, but by that point, anything was possible.

As he examined the photos, he noticed something. Something didn't quite fit right into the picture. Like one of the old books that Ckamians used to entertain their children with for sharper eyesight and spotting, a pattern resolved itself in the blood spatters; a shape took form.

Flipping back to the first instance, a…mixed species abhuman whose face had been ground away with a blender, he took a close, careful look at the wall behind, in the gore dripping down the wall.

And there it was.

Eight pieces of bone and grey matter, like eight points on a compass rose, but with one section longer than the others. There was nothing linking the pieces, nor were they clearly put into a circle. It was more of an oval, clearly explained by the way the man fell on the blender as it chewed his face off.

But it didn't sit right. Nothing in the picture sat right with him. But that was for a later time, he thought, I have more important matters to attend to. Then his stomach let out a warning growl and he quickly packed away the dataslate. Like not shouting vegetables in... _polite_...company.

He waited a no less than a minute before the Savant resumed her briefing; the rest of the Acolytes didn't look as appalled or affected by the gore and the possibility of a Chaos invasion. _Business as normal, I suppose_ , he sighed, _sogging business as normal_.

"The information upon these dataslates has been classified Vermillion. This is beyond secret or top secret information. Needless to say, if anything should leak. Anywhere. I will personally see to your execution for dereliction of duty and lack of piety to the Emperor of Mankind."

"Question!" one of the Acolytes from the back said.

"Speak."

"Why is the information in the standard invasion format?" Marcus scowled and looked around for the person who asked the question, and failed. Throne, he could even feel the memory of her voice slipping away from his memory. _Must be one of the infiltration types_ , he reasoned and disguised his shrug as rolling his shoulders. _Then it's useless to remember her. I'll forget_.

He cursed all the infiltration styled Acolytes then; they always held up the briefing with unnecessary questions. If anything at all, it was a relief that it was in the standard format, just in case something more needed to be done about the situation.

"Unknown. As you see it now is as I received it. Records from the Mechanicus escorts report that Milowz was torn between investigating the planet and rejoining the main Fleet. Given that the Fleet would have moved on with or without him, Milowz probably opted to hastily equip an away team to investigate and be picked up at a later date.

However, it is also important to remember that this Explorator Fleet was equipped with the sole intention to conquer worlds, all while being entirely self-sufficient."

"Thank you m'Lady," and she sat back down.

"Now, as you are undoubtedly thinking, where do you all come in?" The Silver Savant's holographic face swiveled around the room briefly before continuing. "Simple. I intend to blanket the planet with you and your abilities. I want as much information as quickly as possible. Once I feel I have enough information on hand, I will make a decision on how to act."

"But before you can descend unto the planet, we need to make contact with the descendants of the Acolytes originally charged with the data collection. This is a non-Compliant world; I highly doubt they have even heard of the Imperium, given their lack of space faring capabilities."

"As such, there will be two waves of you. Who is in which wave has already been determined and can be found within the dataslates that I have passed out amongst you. Your assignments and secondary objectives are already included within the dataslates, so I do not need to go into detail here."

"Now a final word before I leave you. Even if there is a _single_ one of Milowz's Agents or their descendants left, they are still a member of the Holy Ordos, and are to be treated as an equal in the proceedings, unless treachery and heresy have been discovered and proven beyond a shadow of a doubt to everyone here. Am I clear on this?"

Everyone nodded, a few vocalized their consent. The Lady of Chrai didn't need to hear or see their heads; she knew them too well.

"Good. The travel time to the planet is expected to take a standard month, if all goes well. Your mission begins in sixty seconds. I suggest you prepare for a Warp jump, and may the Emperor be with you."

It was a true mark of the level of discipline that their attention was rooted to Her visage before the transmission cut out. Then it was a mad scramble to the Warp couches placed around the Tactica Center, buckling themselves in and praying to the Emperor for a safe journey and a slightly less crazy Navigator than normal.

It was much to his dismay that he found himself squished between the meaty Sororitas and the Warp-tainted bulkhead. Requests to be let up were met with grunts that were able to be read along the lines of "Sog no, and sog you."

So he settled in and waited for the world to turn inside out and smell like purple as an automated voice counted down in a dead language he was sure only he knew.

"3…2…1…Thank you for flying Terran Spacelanes today."

 _Fucking Mechanicus_ was his last conscious thought for an instant of eternity.

M.

888

++Imperial World {Redacted}. Local designation "Remnant". Kingdom of Vale. City of Vale. South Eastern Quarter++

The slow monotony of his footsteps clicked across the "rockcrete" floor, every other step a different sound, the clip accented by cane he carried in his right hand. Usually only carried for style and because it was his Hunting weapon, _Melodic Cudgel_ was made out of the strongest materials he could steal, and was more than up to the challenge of bearing more than the usual amount of weight on its shaft.

Still, he didn't like the helpless feeling that went with it. Even a week after the…incident at the docks, Roman Torchwick was still hurting. He knew he was going to regret poking the cat Faunus' buttons, but the adrenaline from battle just keeps going to his head. So, he supposed limping along and actually needing the cane for a few days wouldn't be that bad of a price to pay for walking away from that.

He didn't like it here. He didn't like the Artist. He didn't even like his own boss. But…there was very little he could do about it. She had _her_. And She had spies everywhere. The walls had ears. Very functional, very hidden ears. That meant he couldn't make his own move without Her hearing about it. But that wasn't going to happen soon, so he had to wait, bide time.

He exited the eastern tunnel complex and emerged into the main chamber where the staging area lay. From the most recent train robbery, only about a quarter of the needed supplies got back to them. Their leader...Torchwick searched for his name...Adam! Yeah, Adam led the raid. He came back mumbling something about 'defection' and 'betrayal'.

Still, Torchwick made a quick calculation and sighed. They still had about half of the needed tram cars. What drones and supplies that could be salvaged were, or were in the process of being salvaged. On the other side of the tracks, flashes of Dust welders joining metal with metal could be seen.

A small curious noise suddenly rose from his left side, and someone warm wrapped an arm around his waist. He smiled despite the pain it caused.

"Hi Neo," he said, the tension in his face mostly disappearing. His left arm became draped around her, as much as it could. Her only response was, as usual when he came home from a mission or from the medical bay, to just stand there, hugging him. "Missed you."

Neo's response was more felt than seen since her head was buried into the side of his jacket. She wasn't very talkative, not since the attack. The same attack that drove him to unlock both of their Auras. The aftermath left him a different man. A determined one, hellbent on learning how to unlock an Aura.

"Did _you_ find anything?" he asked quietly. Neo sighed and sadly shook her head. "Don't worry. That just means it's another place she isn't. She's out there. And we'll find her."

He mumbled the words and nuzzled her hair. _But now?_ He thought to himself, as he stood there, holding onto his daughter like a lifeline. _Now, I'd say I am hell bent on something else. Something more precious; survival. To keep coming home to her. Because we're all we have left. I can't imagine what she'd do without me._ They were supposed to have the next few days together, with him being back at the base for recovery and no one but him knowing she was even here. Supposed to being the operative word. In reality, he had, at most, a few more hours before his next report was due to Her.

After that, he had to get back to work. But for that to actually be effective, he needed more grunts. A lot more grunts. So far, all he'd gotten for reinforcements were some of her hardcore followers. These weren't the leftover street thugs, or the basic muscle in White Fang uniforms that toted rifles and the odd melee weapon around the base. No, these men and women were hardcore. Their uniforms were clearly military, or at least surplus. Their armor was far too bulky to be anything but homemade; no Remnant army had that blocky of a design fielded. Nor did their guns fire Dust-ammo. For humans, they just seemed to alien to him; giving him the creeps whenever one of them so much as looked at him.

Then came The Mess. The one time he'd seen them in action, when three of them came under a drunken assault by some other fresh 'Fang recruits.

They were outnumbered three to one, they had no weapons, and they let none live.

After that, everybody kept well away from these "Volunteers". That was their official title, as far as She was concerned. Part of one of the largest units she had been gathering, in what little information he'd been able to gleam from the rest of the 'Fang and from the chatter he'd been able to translate.

Oum Almighty did he just want to get that bitch's plan done and over with. All he wanted, _really wanted,_ was for the end to be swift, the beginning nice and smooth, and above all, the return of his wife and mother of their daughter.

He feared the worst, but promised himself, and to Neo, in the silence of the night when she was asleep, that it would not come to pass. Not while he was still breathing. Not while he was still fighting.

++Download Complete, packet_2++

++Thought for the Day: The strongest adamantium is always forged in the hottest crucibles++


End file.
